


With A Name Like Mine

by sparkycap



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Canon Era, First Meetings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-22 05:58:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8275307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparkycap/pseuds/sparkycap
Summary: This is what downtime looks like in Bastogne.





	

i.

Speirs was already a legend.

It got worse in Bastogne, as all things did.

The facts about him were just as impressive as the rumors, and that’s what really did it. In the eyes of the battalion, maybe the whole goddamn ETO for all any of them knew, that’s what tipped him from _man who was a legend_ to _more legend than man_.

 

ii.

The first time Lipton is formally introduced to Speirs, he can’t quite feel his fingers.

It’s not entirely dangerous yet, he doesn’t think, just a numbing sensation spreading steadily from his fingertips toward his palms. Maybe he’ll have time to worry about it tomorrow. For now, as long as they work, he’s fine.

Winters introduces them quickly, never mind that they both know well enough who they’re speaking to, with as much civility as anyone can stand after living in the woods and sleeping in the ground for weeks. Speirs gives battalion his report, and then Nixon pulls him aside, and Lipton gives his own while the two of them are muttering in the corner. It works out that they leave at the same time, and only Speirs has an inkling that Nixon may have planned it that way.

For about three steps, they’re silently walking in the same direction. And then Speirs says abruptly, “Where are your gloves, Sergeant?”

“One of my men got his all torn up, sir,” Lipton says. “I gave him mine until we could find something better.”

Speirs stares at him for a long moment. It’s that unsettling way he has, but Lipton reads the surprise in that near blank expression and almost wants to smile. Somehow, he gets the feeling not many things surprise this man.

After a long moment, Speirs asks, “Have you told your CO?”

“There’s nothing Captain Winters can do, sir.”

“I meant Lieutenant Dike.”

“Ah.” Lipton grimaces. “There’s really nothing he can do either, sir.”

“So I hear,” Speirs mutters, and Lipton does his best to fight back a surprised laugh. At Lipton’s foxhole, he comes to a stop, and Speirs stops with him. He digs around in his pockets for a moment, coming up with a pack of Lucky Strikes and a lighter, the former of which he offers to Lipton with a bland expression. “Cigarette?”

Lipton almost says no. Not because he thinks he’s about get shot, but because declining such offers is second nature by now. The consequences of not smoking in the army.

Instead he says, “Thank you, sir,” and tucks the offered cigarette into his front pocket. One of the boys will need it sooner or later, and it’ll be good to have up his sleeve. It has the added benefit of making Speirs tip him a small, pleased smile before he leaves.

Two days later, Lipton slips into his foxhole to find a pair of perfectly intact gloves folded into his blanket.

 

iii.

Bastogne was like a fairytale. Not the good kind, but the older ones, where the dark wood stayed cursed and the children got nothing in exchange for their innocence. Bastogne only felt real because it killed them. The cold and the tracers and the exploding trees forced themselves into tangibility because men were dying, and something had to be doing it, even if the cold felt warm if you sat in it long enough and the tracers looked like fireworks if you squinted just right.

 

iv.

“Where did you find the gloves, sir?” Lipton asks.

It gets him a sharp look, but Lipton recognizes it easily now as surprise. It’s likely Speirs hadn’t expected to be questioned, maybe hadn’t thought Lipton would even realize who had left them for him.

“Do you really want to know?” Speirs asks, and that’s almost answer enough. There’s a dead Kraut somewhere with cold hands.

Just to be sure, Lipton says, “I’d like to know no one’s missing them, sir.”

“No one is,” Speirs says. There’s a peculiar edge to his voice, and his eyes are intent on Lipton. Then his gaze wanders away, and he seems to hesitate. Finally, he adds, “I wouldn’t have taken them otherwise.”

Lipton nods slowly. “Yes, sir.”

It seems strange to him to have ever thought anything else.

 

v.

Speirs was the only one who looked like he belonged there. He moved through the snow without a sound, appearing between the trees like a specter, like an omen. Sometimes he walked the line by himself in the middle of the night, always calm, always quiet.

Men with nothing else to do but freeze made up stories; he didn’t sleep, he didn’t feel the cold, he didn’t bleed.

 

vi.

“Hey, Lip.” Luz stops him with a hand on his arm. “Is it true you took a cigarette from Speirs?”

Lipton rests a hand on Luz’s shoulder, sighs heavily, and says, “Luz. Shut up and go watch the line.”

“Look, I just know how you hate to make the guys worry, and there may be a running bet on when Speirs is gonna come back and finish you off,” Luz informs him.

“Yeah, sounds like they’re real concerned,” Lipton says.

“You know gambling is how we show our affection,” Luz protests. “Really, Lip, I’m just looking out.”

“Look out for Germans, Luz.”

 

vii.

Speirs steps by Lipton’s foxhole in the middle of the night, the crunch of his boots in the snow louder than it has to be, and Lipton opens his eyes.

It helps that he wasn’t sleeping.

He struggles to a sitting position, blanket slipping down around his shoulders. “Sir? Is everything—“

“Fine.” The sharp edge to Speirs’ voice is softer than usual, and Lipton feels less than confident attributing this entirely to the late hour. Looking off into the tree line and straddling an awkward line between a reassurance and a command, Speirs says, “Everything’s fine. Go back to sleep.”

Lipton starts, “I wasn’t—"

Then Speirs turns his head, zeroing in on him, and Lipton breaks off.

“Yes, sir,” he says, like he should have from the start. The cold must be messing with him.

“I was just out for a walk,” Speirs tells him. He has no obligation to explain himself to Lipton, and he doesn’t even look as if he feels the need to. He just casually offers the information, and then he slides into the foxhole.

“Hello,” Lipton says, bemused.

Then he remembers he’s talking to his superior officer, but before he can take it back, Speirs flashes him a there-and-gone smile and says, “Why aren’t you sleeping, Sergeant?”

“Just thinking, sir.”

A silent moment, and then, “Do you mind?”

Lipton looks over. Speirs is making to settle in, one hand pulling out a cigarette and the other hovering over the corner of the blanket. He shakes his head. “No, sir.”

And that seems to be all Speirs has to say. He lends his warmth to Lipton’s side and smokes in silence. After that, Lipton feels drowsier than he has all night. In many nights, really. He’s warmer than he’s been in a good long while.

It must have been the cold.

“Dike is an unfortunate complication,” Speirs says quietly when Lipton isn’t listening for it. “And things probably aren’t going to turn out all fine.”

Bizarrely, Lipton wants to smile. Maybe for the way Speirs had known what thoughts were keeping him up without needing to ask, or maybe because his words are just so characteristically unexpected that it’s comforting. “Inspiring pep talk, sir,” he mumbles.

“I won’t lie to you,” Speirs says, shrugging. Lipton makes a face when the movement jostles him and petulantly settles in deeper. “Things will go wrong. But none of it will be your fault.”

Lipton sighs, sleepy and resigned. “That’s not—"

“You’re right, it’s not true,” Speirs interrupts. “I’m sure you’ll save a lot of men who would have otherwise died—that part will be your fault entirely.”

“We’ll have to agree to disagree,” Lipton says.

“Maybe so,” Speirs murmurs.

Just barely awake, Lipton shifts under the blanket, and his head drops somewhere warm and padded. And he sleeps.

Speirs is gone when he wakes up.

 

viii.

“Did you see Speirs last night?” Muck asks.

Luz is almost too tired to roll his eyes. “If I say no, are you going to try to convince me that he’s turned into a ghost?”

“He’s already a ghost,” Muck dismisses. “No, but he was here again.”

“How’d you know that, huh? You wake up in the middle of the night with chills down your spine?” Luz asks.

“Might as well have,” Malarkey mutters.

“I was up,” Muck says, ignoring both of them. “And he was checking in with Lip.”

Luz livens up a little. “Really? Come to finish him off, do you think?”

Muck shrugs. “Maybe. But last I checked he’s still alive.”

Penkala, who has up until now been dozing against Muck’s side, rouses himself enough to grumble, “Then what is the point of this story?”

“What’s the point of camping out in these goddamn woods getting the crap shelled out of us?” Luz retorts. He tips his head back against the frozen dirt and closes his eyes with a sigh. “Who the fuck knows anymore.”

 

ix.

He was already a legend.

Bastogne made him something otherworldly.

 

x.

At some point, Lipton finds himself alone in the dark with Speirs.

The bare facts of it would, he’s sure, constitute a nightmare for a great deal of men. However, they fail to take into account exactly three things: the softness in Speirs’ features when he looks at Lipton, the way his hands shake just the slightest bit when he touches him, and how his lips are cold and chapped when he kisses him, but the space between their mouths is warm.

Lipton sighs, hot air and the closest thing he’s known to happiness in a long, long time.

 

xi.

“Hey, Lip!”

“Yeah, boy?” Lipton turns around, and Malarkey is kicking at the snow behind him. He’s got his hands deep in his pockets, and he gives Lip a grimacing smile.

“Got ahold of some gloves,” Malarkey says, extracting one of his hands and holding them out. He looks remorseful. “You shouldn’t have let me keep yours so long.”

Lipton reaches out and takes them automatically, and then spends a moment staring at his hands. Slowly, he says, “You know what? Give these to Toye. I doubt we’ll find him more socks any time soon, these’ll have to do.”

“What about—" Malarkey breaks off when he sees Lipton’s gloved hands. “Oh, hey. You found some.”

“Sorry I didn’t tell you,” Lipton agrees, absentminded. “Didn’t know you were still looking.”

“Well, Joe will be happy.” Malarkey shrugs. They both know Joe will bitch about the need for them and possibly refuse out of pure stubbornness, probably donate them to Roe or Luz instead, but it’s the thought that counts.

Lipton examines the wan slight smile on Malarkey’s face, the tiredness in his features. “Where are you off to, anyway?”

Malarkey rolls his eyes. “Looking for Dike.”

And that explains it. Lipton sighs. He considers for a moment, and then he fishes a cigarette out of his front pocket to hand back with the gloves. Malarkey’s eyes light up—just for a brief moment, but it’s enough.

“For the gloves,” Lipton offers, and he claps Malarkey on the shoulder and walks away before Malarkey can point out that he hadn’t taken them.

 

xii.

Speirs slides into his foxhole when it’s just dark enough he won’t be easily seen, greeting, “First Sergeant.”

Lipton offers a tired smile. “Hello, sir.”

“How are your men?” Speirs asks, putting a cigarette between his lips and shifting closer to Lipton in his search for a lighter.

Lipton reaches into Speirs’ front pocket and pulls it out for him, cupping a hand around the flame by Speirs’ mouth to light his smoke. Speirs gives him a grateful tilt of the lips that might almost be a smile, fingers brushing and lingering against Lipton’s as he takes the lighter back. “They’re as well as they can be, sir,” Lipton says. “And yours?”

“The same.” Speirs takes a drag, as always trapping the cigarette between his fingertips to offer it to Lipton. As always, Lipton is tempted. The taste of nicotine and Speirs is nearly indistinguishable to him; sometimes he licks his lips and can’t tell if he’s craving a kiss or a smoke. Still, he declines. Speirs tucks it back into the corner of his mouth and speaks around it, asking, “And your status?”

“Sir?”

“I can hear that cough all the way from Dog, Lipton.”

Lipton would flush if it wasn’t so cold. “Sorry, sir.”

“Have you seen a medic?” Speirs asks, ignoring his apology entirely. He reaches across Lipton to grab the blanket by his boots, spreading it over Lipton with quick, efficient movements. Lipton lifts the corner for Speirs to slide under too, sighing and relaxing into the shared warmth.

“Well, sir, I’ve been busy—"

“I know,” Speirs interrupts, and that’s not right. It’s just a little too early for his voice to be this soft. Some of the boys are still awake and moving; there’s a chance someone could see the way Speirs slips a gloved across Lipton’s cheek and says so quiet he can barely hear it, “I know you have. That’s not a good enough excuse.”

It’s only to be expected, really. Nothing Lipton has done lately has been good enough.

“Yes, sir,” he says.

Speirs frowns. “Carwood.”

Lipton pulls himself up to look around over the edge of his foxhole. There’s no one too close, but that doesn’t mean it’s safe to be talking like this. Speirs tugs him down impatiently when the blanket moves and lets in the cold air.

“This company would fall apart without you,” Speirs says bluntly. “You need to take care of yourself, because they can spare you for twenty minutes but they can’t afford to lose you.”

“Ron… that’s not…”

“And neither can I,” Speirs adds, even quieter.

Lipton can’t protest then, not with the look in Speirs’ eyes, the closest thing to fragile he’s ever seen. Instead he presses further into his side, finding his hand underneath the blanket and clutching tight.

They’ve all lost so much already.

 

xiii.

There are too many ghosts that will haunt those woods, and for a long time Speirs was one of them.

Little by little, Lipton made him real again.

 

xiv.

“I’m telling you,” Muck insists. “I heard something last night.”

“Go to sleep,” Luz replies.

“There was a gunshot around 0200, right?” Malarkey asks.

“Thank you!” Muck exclaims, gesturing at him. “From our side of the line, too—"

“And that’s why no one else heard it,” Penkala deadpans. “Not me, not Luz, not our goddamn CO?”

Luz snorts. “Our goddamn CO doesn’t hear a goddamn thing, Penk. He was probably taking a walk.”

“Don heard it,” Muck maintains.

“And as nice it as it is you two have progressed to couples’ hallucinations, you can tell us about your fuckin' dreams in the morning,” Luz says.

“It was probably just Speirs, anyway,” Penkala adds.

And so it goes.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Ghost Towns by Radical Face


End file.
